


Dislocation

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Birthday Sex, Blood, Breathplay, Bruises, Burnplay, Burns, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, M/M, Masochism, No Aftercare, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sadism, Scars, Scratching, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-12 16:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5672077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Imayoshi’s still smiling but that doesn’t mean anything; Hanamiya is listening to his voice, listening to the way it dips into a low resonance that sounds like a threat and feels like heat, and he can hear the edge of promised pain under the sound, can see the beginnings of the flame he’s seeking." Imayoshi is fire and Hanamiya likes to burn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dislocation

Hanamiya can breathe too well.

It’s too easy. All he has to do is open his mouth and flex his diaphragm, and his lungs will fill themselves with air painlessly, effortlessly, so smoothly he doesn’t have to think about it. There’s no strain of exertion, no need for whimpering protest; it’s just easy, a gasp of air and the relief of oxygen, his body so responsive to his instinctive needs he can forget what he’s doing.

He hates it.

“Senpai,” he drags, trying to attain the grate on the word in a voice that refuses his attempts at imitated roughness, his throat slurring into a liquid spill of sound that is far too close to affection for Hanamiya’s tastes. “Senpai, _more_.”

“Later,” Imayoshi tells him, smiling the same inscrutable smile he always offers. When he rocks forward to take another thrust into Hanamiya his shoulders cut in front of the light to cover the other in darkness for a moment. “Just be patient, Makoto.”

“No,” Hanamiya whines, and digs his heels in hard at Imayoshi’s hips to drag him closer. Imayoshi’s weight comes forward, his cock sliding suddenly deeper, and Hanamiya shudders at the rush of sensation, at the burst of pain that rushes up his spine like lightning grounding out in his blood. “I want it _now_.”

“I told you.” Imayoshi’s still smiling but that doesn’t mean anything; Hanamiya is listening to his voice, listening to the way it dips into a low resonance that sounds like a threat and feels like heat, and he can hear the edge of promised pain under the sound, can see the beginnings of the flame he’s seeking. “It will be better if you wait.”

“I’m tired of waiting,” Hanamiya protests. His skin is prickling with adrenaline, his blood so hot he can feel his skin burning with it; his whole body aches with want as if with physical pain, with a dull hurt on the edge of his awareness that offers all the irritation of true agony with none of its satisfaction. “ _Senpai_.” He reaches up to Imayoshi’s shoulder; he can feel the flex of muscle under the skin as Imayoshi holds himself in place for the too-slow rhythm of his thrusts, can dig his fingernails into the other until blood seeps sticky across his fingertips. Imayoshi’s forehead creases, his smile going tense with the hurt, but it’s the reaction Hanamiya wants, the promise of the anger he seeks, and instead of pulling away when Imayoshi hums a warning he drags his hand down farther, scoring lines of red over Imayoshi’s shoulder with all the viciousness his short-bitten fingernails can grant.

Imayoshi moves quickly. One moment he’s leaning over Hanamiya, bracing himself with both arms on either side of the other’s head; the next he’s tipped sideways, the rhythm of his thrusts stilling as his hand comes up. His fingers close on Hanamiya’s wrist, drive in hard against the tendons straining under the skin; Hanamiya groans at the sudden sharp ache, his fingers going slack of their own accord as Imayoshi shoves his hand back down to the mattress. The angle is painful, his wrist twisted so far to the side he can feel the hurt all the way up into his shoulder; he thinks if he moved he might be able to wrench the joint out of alignment, might be able to give himself the bruising agony of dislocation by pulling against the hold Imayoshi has on his hand.

He’s still thinking about it, turning the idea over into purring heat in his head, when Imayoshi says “Makoto” in tones of absolute calm. “If you do I won’t touch you again all night.”

Hanamiya’s skin goes cold. “You wouldn’t,” he says, but if Imayoshi’s voice is calm his is trembling, jumping up over his vocal range in an audible tell for his uncertainty. “Not today, not when it’s my--”

“I would,” Imayoshi tells him. He’s still smiling down at Hanamiya, still looks amused, but his voice has no trace of teasing heat under it at all. “I’d stop right here and take you to the hospital.”

Hanamiya blinks. “You wouldn’t,” he repeats, but it’s almost a plea this time, horror at the possibility leeching into his tone in spite of any attempt he might make to hold it back. “You said--”

“If you behaved,” Imayoshi tells him, and Hanamiya remembers that, vaguely, can call up the agreement he made an hour ago, so distant now on time and heat and unfulfilled desire that he can barely recall the taste of the words on his lips. “If you did as I said.”

“You’re _teasing_ me,” Hanamiya whines, aware even as he says it that the words are capitulation, a cover for the way he’s falling slack against the mattress and letting the possibility of tension ease out of his shoulder. “That’s not _fair_ , this isn’t what I thought you were going to do.”

“You agreed,” Imayoshi tells him. His fingers unfold from Hanamiya’s wrist, his thumb relieving the pressure digging between the tendons; Hanamiya gasps a sob at the sensation, the cessation of pain twisting sour in his stomach even as his wrist throbs protest, but then Imayoshi’s palm lands against his chest and his breathing stalls itself on anticipation. Hanamiya blinks his focus clear, lifts his head to meet the other’s gaze; Imayoshi is watching him, his smile casual again and his expression deliberately blank.

It looks like a promise.

“It’s too soon,” Imayoshi says, but his weight is shifting to the hand on Hanamiya’s chest and Hanamiya’s heart is pounding from more than just the pressure of Imayoshi crushing him down to the bed. “I don’t know that you can take it.”

“I can,” Hanamiya says, and his throat is still unrestricted but the words go low anyway, anticipation of Imayoshi’s touch writing itself raw in his voice. “Senpai, _please_.”

Imayoshi’s smile twitches wider at the corner of his mouth. There’s a flash of teeth, a catch of light off the white line of them, and then he moves, bringing his other hand up and catching his fingers into a grip at Hanamiya’s throat without warning. Hanamiya arches off the bed, choking through a gasp of the heat that rushes through him, and Imayoshi moves, draws back to take a sharp thrust into Hanamiya’s body while the other is still shuddering with his first shocked reaction.

“This is what you want,” Imayoshi says, and it’s not a question, and Hanamiya doesn’t answer. The heat in his throat is too much, completing the motion Imayoshi’s hand hasn’t yet achieved and cutting off any hope of coherent response he might still have. Imayoshi’s thrusting hard into him, the press of his cock slick and hot with each stroke, but it’s the pressure of his fingers that’s holding Hanamiya’s attention, the angle of his wrist more central to the other’s focus than the force of Imayoshi’s hips. “It hurts, right?”

Hanamiya moans. The sound comes out faint, shredded on the weight of Imayoshi’s fingers at his throat, but Imayoshi hears it anyway, or maybe it’s just that he can feel it, can sense the vibration of the sound against his fingertips. He laughs, low and purring and as heavy as the press of his hold, and Hanamiya trembles again just at the sound.

“I’m going to bruise you,” Imayoshi says, a statement and not a warning. His fingers steady, tighten against the sides of Hanamiya’s throat, his grip spanning the whole of the other’s neck without straining. “You’ll have to wear a scarf for a few days.”

 _I don’t care_ , Hanamiya would say if he could, if he had the coherency or the space to speak. _I don’t care, I’ll show everyone, let them see_. But he lacks the necessities for speech, and he doesn’t have to put words to the feeling anyway, because Imayoshi isn’t waiting for an answer. He’s tensing his fingers, pressing his hold as hard against Hanamiya’s pulse point as he dug into the other’s wrist a moment ago, and Hanamiya is groaning, a high whine of sound that has nothing to do with mercy as Imayoshi starts to fuck harder into him. Imayoshi’s hand at Hanamiya’s chest is flexing, his fingers pressing in hard for traction, but Hanamiya barely notices; all his attention is focusing in on the print of Imayoshi’s fingers at his throat, on the pressure bearing down on him to seize hard around the air his body is reflexively straining for. His cock is hard, at some distant remove, dripping slick against the curve of his stomach as Imayoshi pushes him down against the bed, but all he can think about is the burn in his chest, the ache in his throat, the satisfaction of Imayoshi still smiling down at him as Hanamiya’s attention skids and wanders. His heart is pounding, throwing itself against his ribcage like it’s trying to break free of the weight Imayoshi is imposing on it, and then Imayoshi shifts his weight and reaches out to close his other hand atop the first, and Hanamiya groans with air he doesn’t have as Imayoshi opens his eyes to watch his face. There’s a moment of eye contact, the burn of Imayoshi’s gaze dark behind his glasses; Hanamiya can feel self-consciousness hit him in a wave, heat rushing under his skin until he can feel every strand of hair stuck damp across his forehead, can feel the slack drag of his mouth struggling involuntarily for air. Then Imayoshi’s fingers tense, Hanamiya’s airway closes away the last hope at breathing, and Hanamiya’s head goes back without his intent, his entire body arching itself into a curve that is as much pleasure as it is instinctive resistance. His chest is burning, his throat is aching, but Imayoshi isn’t letting go and Hanamiya doesn’t want him to, doesn’t want to lose the pressure of the fingers digging bruises into his throat. His thoughts are going hazy, his vision fading out to distraction; when Imayoshi thrusts into him he jolts with the force, can feel the friction spark hot up his spine like it’s carried on the burn lancing out into his chest from the need for air. He groans soundlessly, attempting a groan that stalls against Imayoshi’s grip, and he thinks he might come, he thinks he might pass out, it’s a race between the rush of heat to his cock and the dizzy haze descending over his vision. His legs are shaking, he thinks, his mouth open on air he can’t inhale, but he doesn’t reach to push at Imayoshi’s hands, doesn’t make any attempt to urge the other’s hold off him. There’s blood on his fingertips, the scratches he left at Imayoshi’s shoulder staining his skin red and sticky, and Imayoshi’s breathing harder but Hanamiya’s starting to shake, his body falling into reflexive convulsions he can’t even attempt to stop. There are tears in his eyes, his throat is flexing helplessly in his attempts to catch a lungful of air, and his vision is going dark, black creeping in from the edges to cut off the hazy sight he wasn’t paying attention to anyway. Hanamiya wonders, a brief moment of clarity amid the ache in his chest and the fire in his blood: would Imayoshi stop? If Hanamiya fell into the limp sprawl of unconsciousness, would Imayoshi hesitate, would he loosen his hold on the other’s throat? Or would he keep going, keep fucking Hanamiya back over the sheets even with the other unresponsive and still beneath him?

Hanamiya only has a moment to consider the thought. It’s enough to jar another surge of heat to his cock, to ache tension against the weight of his balls, and in the shudder of response that draws from his body Imayoshi groans and stutters to stillness over him. There’s a rush of heat, the pulse of Imayoshi’s cock spilling into him, and then pressure easing at his throat, fingers loosening enough for Hanamiya to choke and gasp a desperate, hissing inhale. It’s not enough to satisfy, barely enough to tear his throat raw on the attempt, but then Imayoshi draws his hands away entirely and lets Hanamiya hiss and cough and shudder his way back to full consciousness while the other slides back and out of him. Hanamiya’s hands are shaking, his thighs are slick with his own sweat and Imayoshi’s come, but Imayoshi is reaching for his knees and keeping his legs spread wide, and when his hand slides up to press high at the inside of Hanamiya’s thigh Hanamiya groans a breathless note of heat past the raw ache of his abused throat.

“Let me see,” Imayoshi purrs, speaking more to himself than to Hanamiya, and pushes the other’s leg wide. The angle aches in Hanamiya’s hip with the dull pain of a joint flexed too far, but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t flinch beyond the tremors of adrenaline still running through him. When Hanamiya lifts his head and strains his neck he can see Imayoshi looking at his skin, smiling at the pale inside of his thigh like his favorite book is printed there.  
“One,” Imayoshi says, and touches his fingertips feather-light to Hanamiya’s skin. Hanamiya jerks with it, his body quivering anticipation, but Imayoshi doesn’t look up at his face and his smile doesn’t flicker. “Two.” The drag of that touch again, outlining the shape of skin healed into the shine of a years-old injury, the print of a burn so high on Hanamiya’s thigh no one but the two of them will ever know it’s there. “Three,” another touch, another press of deceptively gentle contact, “and four.” Imayoshi pauses, goes quiet, but Hanamiya can feel the skim of his fingers marking out a fifth line across unmarked skin, ghosting the promise of heat in their wake until Hanamiya moans with the pain of the gentleness.

“Makoto.” Steady, calm; it’s hard to hear Imayoshi sound so unruffled, when the even tone of his voice feels so much like a slap across Hanamiya’s sweat-streaked face. “Do you want this?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hanamiya gasps, feeling as breathless as if Imayoshi’s hand is still bearing down on his chest. “ _Yes,_ senpai, yes, I _want_ it.”

“Are you sure?” Imayoshi asks. His hand lingers on Hanamiya’s knee, bracing it out at that awkward angle as he reaches sideways for the table next to the bed, to the knife warmed to blistering heat by the flame that has been licking at it for the last hour. Hanamiya wants to turn his head, wants to follow the arc of the metal through the air, but he can’t look away from Imayoshi’s smile, can’t draw his attention away even as Imayoshi settles the warmth of the handle in his fingers and shifts his grip to steadiness. “We can still stop here.”

“You promised,” Hanamiya whines, aware even as he says it that he sounds immature, sounds petulant, sounds like a child begging for a denied treat. “You said you would, it’s my _birthday_.”

Imayoshi’s smile cracks wide for just a moment. “Well,” he says, and for a moment he’s looking right at Hanamiya again, his eyes dark and focused with as much pressure as Hanamiya’s ever felt. “It is that.” He looks down, drags his thumb over the line of the other’s thigh like he’s reminding himself of the goal, and Hanamiya’s entire body quivers, anticipation too strong for him to bear in stillness. His cock is so painfully hard he can feel blood pulse along its length with every beat of his heart but he reaches for the sheets instead, fists desperate handholds at the fabric to brace himself steady, to force as much of his helpless tremors out of existence as he can.

“Alright,” Imayoshi says over him. Hanamiya’s heartbeat is roaring in his ears now, the sound of a night-black ocean sweeping up until he has to strain to hear Imayoshi’s voice. The knife is close; Hanamiya can feel the radiance of it aching against unmarked skin, his nerves protesting the heat even before the contact has come. Imayoshi’s fingers tighten at Hanamiya’s knee. “Happy birthday, Makoto.” And he brings his hand in and presses the flat of blade flush to Hanamiya’s skin.

Hanamiya jerks. He can’t help it, there’s no conscious thought in his head at all; there’s just the first rush of agony, the protest of his skin at the heat tearing through it and hissing up Hanamiya’s spine to rip apart his coherency. He’s screaming, somewhere, shrieking for the raw hurt all along his thigh, but Imayoshi’s hold is merciless, and Hanamiya’s cock is aching, the same electricity of hurt seizing in his body twitching fire into his blood as well. Hanamiya can’t see for the red over his vision, can’t breathe for the fading scream he’s offering, and then Imayoshi rocks the heat in closer to his skin and Hanamiya comes, his entire body seizing tight on the rush of sensation as his cock spurts over his stomach and halfway up his chest. The sound in his throat deepens out of its agonized wail, modulates into something that tastes like the smoulder of satisfaction on his tongue, and Imayoshi is still pressing the heat to his thigh and Hanamiya’s still coming, shuddering helplessly through another rush every time he thinks he’s free. He can’t breathe, can’t stop the sound in his throat long enough to manage another inhale, and this time when his vision goes it’s to white, his awareness hazing out to fall and drown in the immediacy of the sensation jolting through him.

Hanamiya realizes he’s breathing again when he hears Imayoshi set the knife back down on the table. The removal of the pressure hasn’t eased the ache; his body’s still wailing at him, still protesting the agony of heat radiating out from the new burn against his thigh. Imayoshi is leaning in over him, bracing an arm over Hanamiya’s shoulder to hold himself up; when Hanamiya blinks his vision back to clarity it’s to see the angle of Imayoshi smiling down at him.

“Five,” he says, shaping the word slow so Hanamiya can watch the way his mouth curves around the sound like a threat, like a confession, like a promise. “Happy birthday.”

Hanamiya swallows hard, works some kind of saliva back into his throat. His cheeks are wet with tears. “Thank you, senpai,” he manages, attempting sing-songy taunting that just tears into ragged desperation in his throat.

Imayoshi laughs, low and hot in his chest, and slides his knee high between Hanamiya’s thighs. His leg presses against Hanamiya’s balls, his weight bearing down against the other’s softening cock, and Hanamiya hisses at the pressure and rocks up for more. His thigh aches at the motion, pain jarring distraction up his spine, and then the raw burn catches sticky against Imayoshi’s skin and Hanamiya shudders with it, the whine of hurt converting itself into a groan as Imayoshi leans in to catch the heat of Hanamiya’s exhale at his lips. Hanamiya can feel each of Imayoshi’s movements telegraphed to his brain in jolts of pain, every flex of the other’s leg catching and dragging against damaged flesh to spark hurt up his spine and burst firework-hot in his thoughts.

Hanamiya opens his mouth to Imayoshi’s tongue, and arches his back, and presses his leg in closer.


End file.
